


Mother Hen

by FeatheredMask



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Crushes, F/M, Food, Gore, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatheredMask/pseuds/FeatheredMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A paper covered with nothing but a single confession - 'I love Tamaki' - and Haruhi is suddenly forced to pay for a secret she never meant to discover. A short, dark story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Usotsuki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is being moved here from FF, due to FF's guidelines on mature content (and a few rather loud reviews demanding I take down the story due to "young people will ignore the rating and read anyway!!"). Once I'm done writing this story, the last few chapters might be considered gore porn, I dunno. Tags will be added as content is added.
> 
>  
> 
> Usotsuki: a liar

Soft orange light spilled from the windows into the room, creating a sunset romance setting. Alas, the day was nearing its end, and the members of the host club left yawning. They sent good-natured farewells to their lone female member, leaving her with the task of finishing the clean-up of the day's activities.

Haruhi put up minimum protest as her friends took their leave, but she couldn't bring herself to be even mildly annoyed about their attitudes; this day had been a success. The host club had hosted a surprise birthday party for a girl whose father was on a business trip, and the father had shown up in the middle of the celebration, completely brightening the girl's day.

Haruhi's mind was swept away from memories of mere hours ago when she noticed something small and black sitting on the couch. She closed the last of the curtains and picked up the lonely book. The cover was a mildly worn moleskin, the type for any kind of writer and expected to be manhandled quite a bit. The inside of the cover had the name of its owner inscribed in ballpoint pen, in impeccably neat handwriting: Kyoya Ootori. The sides of the paper were a pure white, and Haruhi had to flip through the pages with her thumb to make sure it contained writing, but fast enough so she didn't intrude on anything private.

"He must have left his notebook behind. I better get it back to him in case he needs it for something."

A slip of paper fell out from between the pages, shaken loose from her handling. Haruhi picked it up. A folded piece of notebook paper, torn right out of someone's notebook, the kind one would end up with when they forgot their usual note-taking paper and had to ask someone else for a replacement. Even though it seemed to have been chosen very hastily, the wrinkles were smoothed out and the page was folded neatly. Haruhi might have passed it off as a note to self about school or the host club had it not been colored over with pen and graphite.

Upon closer inspection, Haruhi's mind turned to confusion.

'I love Tamaki.'

That short sentence repeated itself again, again, again, until it filled every inch of the white space. Once pencil had filled it, pressing against the remains of unfinished calculous problems, pen wrote over it. Haruhi slowly unfolded the paper, unveiling more of the repeated proclamation, this time with little hearts replacing the dots on the i's and the periods. One giant heart encircled the confessions, the edges of that lined with more of the phrase.

"This can't be Kyoya's," Haruhi muttered, her brow furrowing in confusion. Shrugging, she tossed the paper in the trash, passing it off as written by one of Tamaki's more obsessed clients. "Can't have been very important, anyway."

Five minutes later found Haruhi jogging down the pavement from Ouran, clutching her shoulder bag in one hand. The lost notebook she gripped in her other hand. Kyoya didn't often take a limo back to his mansion, and Haruhi hoped this was one day he'd gone with his usual mode of transport. To her relief, she soon saw him walking ahead of her.

Haruhi called out his name, waving his notebook above her head for him to clearly see. Kyoya stopped and turned around as Haruhi neared, his face contorting in horror when his eyes landed on the black notebook his her hand. It slipped into curious surprise so fast Haruhi concluded she imagined the previous expression.

Once Haruhi caught up with him, she breathlessly explained he had left his notebook in the club room, and he took it with a polite thank you.

"I was worried for a moment there, that you needed it to prepare for tomorrow or something. That notebook doesn't have anything important you need for tonight, right?"

Kyoya let a soft smile grace his visage at her good-natured worry. "No," he assured her, "Nothing important."


	2. Shiyoku no hashiru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiyoku no hashiru: to pursue one's selfish desires
> 
> Sharpening steel: a rod of steel, used for sharpening kitchen knives. A French knife would be about the largest knife you would be able to find in someone's kitchen (no butcher's knife here). Sharpening steel is used as Kyoya demonstrates in the chapter.

Kyoya constantly wrote in his notebook. 

Since she had picked it up the other day, Haruhi found herself paying much more attention to Kyoya's notebook. She’d never paid much attention to it before, passing it off as notes on the club’s finances or how to increase said finances. Strangely enough, the mystery reminded her of her forensic science class. On one of the first few days of class, the teacher showed a video of something called an 'awareness test'. The viewer would be told what to expect, and then something odd would occur or appear in the background that the viewer wouldn't notice, since they had their attention focused elsewhere in the scene. Now that the oddity had been pointed out to her, she could see it and pay attention to it. 

Kyoya kept the notebook with him almost 24/7, as far as she could tell. He scribbled down everything Tamaki said, even the small, relatively mundane statements or simple greetings. That wasn’t so peculiar; he could have been writing down the actions and dialog of the entire host club and planned on publishing a book. Haruhi wouldn't put it past the 'Shadow King' to exploit them in a biography of sorts for money. But if that was the case, then why the focus on Tamaki? She’d never seen inside the book, after all. All the clues she had to the contents was that dropped note. 

Haruhi calmed her inner Sherlock Holmes. Maybe the biography focused on Tamaki’s life, and the rest of the hosts took up the spot as background characters. Plausible. Curiosity had only opened up the moment the book had become a physical object she could hold, instead of a, aesthetic part of Kyoya’s cool attitude. 

It really was none of her business, she reassured herself and the girls who had requested her this afternoon. “Sorry, my mind’s been preoccupied lately. I’ve been focusing a lot on my studies.” She laughed. “I’m glad I have you girls to talk to at the end of the day. It’s nice to unwind.”

Her excuse came too late, even though it brought flattered blushes to circle around Haruhi. The patrons glanced back in the direction they’d caught her staring, piquing a round of giggles. The rumor mill began to bubble with fawning over a suspected couple. 

\------

Haruhi hummed to herself in thought as she went over a math problem. How did she find the vertex of a quadratic formula again? 

"Maybe I can ask Dad when he gets home from work," Haruhi suggested, tapping the pencil enough to make specks on the corner of the paper. She gave up all pretense of calm and leaned back in her chair with a groan. Annoyed, she slapped herself with the homework sheet. "This is simple!" 

With a sigh, she stood to get herself a glass of water, the action giving her excuse to give the homework a break. Just as she passed the door, someone knocked. "I swear, if it’s one of them I’m slamming the door in their-”

She perked up considerably as she discovered her visitor to be Kyoya -- just the perfect non-snarky classmate to ask any math-related questions. Her previous promise to refuse host members was promptly forgotten. 

"Hello, Haruhi," greeted Kyoya. He stepped into the apartment, forcing Haruhi to step aside to make room for him. It was a dominant move, not one he should have felt the need to make. This wasn’t a simple notice of club activities.

"Hello. What can I do for you, Kyoya? Usually you come with at least Tamaki, if not the entire circus."

Kyoya smiled innocently. "I'd like to talk about what happened yesterday." Politely, he closed the front door, and gestured for them to continue to the futon. Haruhi didn’t pause to think about the etiquette of a guest closing the door. 

“Sorry about the mess,” Haruhi said, clearing her homework away back into folders and off of the futon. “I didn’t expect a guest, but you’re just a friend, so don’t expect me to be all formal.”

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her, settling down across from her. "I'm sure you remember that black book of mine you picked up for me yesterday."

"How could I? You have it with you at all times."

Kyoya smiled. "Yes. I really must thank you for returning it." That smile glued to his face, he held out said book to Haruhi. He flipped to a random page. He flipped to another page. He flipped through over half of the book. Writing covered nearly every inch, curled around dialog Haruhi had heard every day at the Host Club. Her theories of a biography and finances fell apart at the single phrase repeated so often, so glaringly, over those pages.

'I love Tamaki.'

"You know a secret of mine," Kyoya said in a business tone, leaving his notebook wide open on the futon. "I demand something of yours in return."

"Mine?" Haruhi asked suspiciously. After a moment of thought, her eyes widened in realization, and she her eyebrows rose in realization. "Back at that hotel, when I ate too much lobster. You weren't trying to reveal my biggest fear."

Kyoya's eyebrow arched in return. "I already have my eyes on Tamaki. Why would I be interested in a girl?"

"What, then?"

There was no debate on the details of the secret or how she’d learned about it entirely on accident. The secret was known. That was it. Haruhi wouldn’t gain any ground arguing about that, not with Kyoya. The vase incident was enough proof of that. 

"I could have you follow my every order, no matter what it may be...of course, you already do that. Years of servitude? No, I have enough servants." 

"Shouldn't you be begging me to keep your secret?" Haruhi asked, suspicion mounting.

"Haruhi," Kyoya purred, standing up. Haruhi tried not to shiver at the chill he said her name with. "You're a kind girl. You're much too nice to do such a thing." 

"If you think that much of me, why do you want payment?" Haruhi followed Kyoya, now meandering out of the sitting room.

Kyoya entered the kitchen area of the apartment, turning with dancing grace to Haruhi to answer her question, his words blunt. "My secrets aren't cheap, and you've already gone in debt." He started rummaging through drawers and cupboards. "Were I a bank, you wouldn't be able to pay the rent for such a nice apartment and, besides being evicted, you'd be forced to sell your most expensive possessions. However, I would be content with something much more..." 

A sliding metal sound, and Kyoya tested the sharpness of her family's worn French knife against his finger. It was too worn to slice into the flesh, and she felt a shiver go down her back at the ringing whisper he made out of it. The grin he aimed at her was a soft, inviting one, the kind he gave to clients. "...humble."

Haruhi couldn't take her eyes from the knife. It was an old thing, bought at a flea market in the first week they moved into the apartment. Even then it had given her father much grief in preparing dinners. "What-" She swallowed. Her heart was beating much faster than a minute ago, she vaguely noted. "What could I give you?"

This time Kyoya frowned, his free hand still digging through the drawers. "Material objects mean little to me." He withdrew a sharpening steel, and slid the lengths of metal against one another, and then again, as if readying to slice into a thick slab of meat. 

"Come to my mansion after school tomorrow at eight. Tell your father a female friend is treating you to dinner. Wear something nice."

Haruhi acted like a statue. She blinked, but otherwise neither nodded nor shook her head. Kyoya returned the utensils to their proper homes and turned away. Heavy silence, tempered by the scuffles of the neighbors through the thin walls, hung in the air as he walked to the door. 

"Have a good day, Haruhi." Click.


	3. Kori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content: why is it winter, food, nsfw sexual content, there are no romantic feelings here
> 
>  
> 
> Kori: ice

A hen spends her day warming her eggs, giving her little loves her undivided attention. She coddles her chicks, always making sure they are warm and happy in her feathery down. Always watching over them with a sharp eye. Always squawking against the fox that creeps into the coop. 

A fleshy hand peeks in. The mother pecks and fluffs her wings, protesting its intrusion. Shoo, shoo-- Feathers suspend in the air. She is swept away to her feed, away from her dappled eggs. Sizzle and bubble. Chop, chop. A new taste enters the hen’s pile of feed. Peck, peck, time to lay more. 

Cheap velvet pumps clicked on the glistening sidewalk. 

She stopped at a gate, the jaws opened wide as if to welcome her. Haruhi clutched her jacket tight around her fitted dress, the design hugging and accentuating curves she rarely acknowledged. Cotton, not the shiny plastic and sequins that glittered on every prom dress on display, although she had struggled to hide the loose threads that poked out from the seams. 

The pumps, she grabbed from a secondhand shop on her way back home from school that same day; kitten heels and stylish flats were hard to come by on clearance, and just about every other heel was a sandal covered in glittery vomit or a business black with such a pointy toe she worried she’d cut herself on it. She ended up learning how to walk in them on the way to Kyoya’s place, and no doubt the kids living in her apartment complex had gotten a laugh out of her stumbling. Other girls might have taken off the heels for everything but the photo shoot, but then what was the point of having the heels in the first place? 

She took a deep breath, steeling herself with honest curiosity on what Kyoya had thought up for the night’s events, and walked through the metal maws.

Her heels clacked on the neat cobblestones, and Haruhi idly wondered whether it was her heels or the fancy driveway being chipped away at from the abuse of the other. She expected Kyoya wouldn’t mind the driveway’s condition, but with his expensive tastes, might not be as forgiving of her shoes. 

She gingerly made her way up the steps, nearly twisting her ankles on the steep rises. She made it, though, and spent a moment straightening her jacket and adjusting her purse strap before ringing the doorbell. It seemed strange, this grandiose display of wealth towering in front of her. She almost expected to be faced with a large gold door knocker. 

The door opened in short time, and Haruhi smiled at the butler. Before she could get a word of greeting out, he interrupted, “The Master Kyoya Ootori is waiting for the Mademoiselle Haruhi. Please come in. If I may take your coat?”

Haruhi hurried to step inside, and blinked in the sudden light. She’d expected marble, but instead she heard hardwood flooring underneath her pumps. The whole place looked very homely and old-fashioned, she noted as the man took her jacket -- and purse, she noticed a little too late. Was this etiquette? She hoped she didn’t leave a bad impression from all this, suddenly self-conscious. 

The butler led her to another room, one tucked away from all the extravagance. Despite the warm, homely atmosphere, clearly a love for the Western Yule tinging the design, the decorations and furniture were nothing short of extravagant. Kyoya rose from his seat when she walked into the room, dressed in a stylish deep red suit. 

“Haruhi,” he greeted, and she relaxed, inwardly berating herself for thinking this was going to be anything worse than a fancy dinner. 

She grinned. “So this is your big payback?” she asked, ignoring his move to pull her chair from the table and sat herself down without assistance. “I have dinner with you, and you get a laugh out of watching the commoner eat fancy food?”

Kyoya returned to his chair, nonplussed at being rebuffed. “Something like that.”

Pause. “You’re going to have to explain it to me, then. I’ve been trying to figure it out all day.”

“But then where would the fun be?” Kyoya made a gesture, and servants filed in carrying food and drink, setting the table. Haruhi leaned back as they worked around her, and watched with wide eyes as a dark red liquid was poured into her glass.

To her surprise, the food wasn’t as expensive as she’d expected. Nothing strange. In accordance with the theme of rest of the house, it was a Christmas feast. The bird was smaller than the typical turkey, the casserole looked immaculate, the mashed potatoes perfectly smooth without any lumps, the gravy a consistent color without any fat separation. The cranberry sauce didn’t appear to have the jelly contours of being out of a can, and the plates of roasted winter vegetables actually looked appetizing. 

“I decided to treat myself,” Kyoya boldly stated. “Since I have you acting as a doll, to go along with anything I say, I thought, why not? Someone my own age. Fulfilling my desires.”

He started to serve himself from the dishes displayed. “My Christmas dinners are business affairs, and usually spent at parties in the houses of my father’s business partners. This is a Christmas dinner in my own house, sitting down at a table, without talk of money or politics, with someone I care about. Or do you celebrate Hanukkah?”

“Christmas,” she confirmed numbly, keeping an eye on Kyoya, not having expected something this…friendly. 

He gave her a disarming smile, and swept his hand over the table. “Eat, then! The fowl is peasant, and the vegetables are grown organic. Nothing too exotic, all grown in either Japan or Europe.” 

At her own pace, Haruhi reached to serve herself, piling her plate with food. “This is,” she started, “rather tame.”

Kyoya’s eyebrows went up. “Tame? Of course. I haven’t planned much tonight, it’s very ‘make it up as I go along’ for a change.”

Haruhi smiled. Something different. “I’m your guinea pig, am I? I can’t believe that it’s healthy to plan out everything every day.”

Kyoya’s lips twitched upwards in a smile. “I’d hardly call you a pig,” he chuckled. Haruhi felt her tension ease at this simple chatter. “Your dress is a refreshing sight. It’s not the height of fashion trends, but it’s certainly you. I’ll have to remember that.”

“Why? Planning on taking me out to a fancy party?” Haruhi asked. “You have plenty of money; I’d think you wouldn’t care who saw you with Tamaki when you two get together.”

Kyoya’s eyes widened, and he put down his wine glass. “You really think I have a chance with him?”

“Of course. You’re doing well enough with me-” She waved to the dinner and the setting that encapsulated them. “And let’s be honest, you’re using me as practice for the real thing before you finally get to Tamaki. I know you, Kyoya. You like to do things right.” 

Across from her, Kyoya blushed, but kept a straight face. “Thank you, Haruhi. You’re very kind,” he said with a nod, and dug into his food. Haruhi took that as a sign to stop pressing the topic, but she ate with that conversation in mind: despite the flirting and romantic tones to the situation, this was just a dinner between friends. 

“I do have plans for after dinner. I hope you don’t mind, but I have more to practice. Completely tame, as you say, I assure you.”

Haruhi looked to him, but her attention was caught by the elaborate, albeit small, dishes brought out for the final course. Small scoops of purple and pink sorbet for the two of them, topped with honey and a sprig of - lavender? Whatever it was, Haruhi had to give them props for presentation. 

She started to thank the servants; however, the servants left without a second glance, sweeping away the remaining dishes from dinner. Haruhi might have felt jilted by the swift and abrupt exit, but she’d come to know how the wealthy expected their service; here, these people were not people, only functioning to control presentation of the meal courses. While commoner restaurants expected bright smiles and elongated chatter, the higher socioeconomic classes differed in what they considered manners. 

Her dessert spoon slid into the sorbet like a warm knife, splitting the frozen treat into smaller pieces to be savored longer. Fragrant flavor bloomed in her mouth like flowers, carrying the creaminess and cold of ice cream and the pleasing burst of perfume. 

It was all too easy to lose herself in easy conversation and the drawn-out dessert. So innocent. 

The after-dinner activities felt just as innocent, with a similar daring flash of cold. They scurried upstairs, giggling and blushing like young teens in the throes of budding puberty, comfortable in the fact that both were virgins. They broke the unknowns and mysteries by peeling back clothes with hesitations and silly blushes that reached from their ears to newly-uncovered skin. 

Haruhi laughed, nearly kicking Kyoya in the face as he stroked down her hips. Neither had any interest in what the other had to offer. All they wanted, in these warm calculations, was practice in being much closer to each other than the daily activities of the Host Club allowed them. They exchanged kisses. Soft kisses. Hard kisses. Biting kisses. Both broke hickey virginity for the first time. 

When they turned away, leaving the bed, both felt warm and fuzzy inside. The oxytocin did its job without any stray hands reaching too close to more dangerous unknowns. Servants had left damp towels for them before climbing back into their clothes with backs turned, fresh as flowers. They left the bedroom smiling, but not holding hands.


	4. Jinmei no Sonchou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content: gore, blood, injury, torture, death, it's gore porn
> 
>  
> 
> Jinmei no sonchou: respect for human life

Going downstairs was a far different ordeal from going upstairs. Haruhi tip-toed her bare feet down both carpeted and marble stairs. Night met the two of them, having sent all the servants and staff of the house to bed for a well-earned rest. These two, with bright faces and flashing eyes, still had fun left. 

She sat down on the last step leading to the ground floor they had started on, the front door in sight, and Kyoya waited as she pulled on her socks again. “I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t think I’ll put the pumps back on. Blisters are horrible,” she laughed. “I can always throw socks in the laundry.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re planning on leaving,” Kyoya teased, and a smirk on his face when Haruhi looked up.

“There’s something more you want to show me?”

Kyoya didn’t turn from her, but his blush gave away the answer. She joked, “I won’t have to wear these pumps for us to go there, will I?”

“It’s nothing outside, I assure you. In the house. I’ve been waiting all night to show it to you.”

Haruhi stood up, smoothing out her dress, the fabric easily bunching up. “Well, lead the way.” She gestured for him to go on ahead, and then paused, noticing him tense. She snorted in amusement. “It’s just a casual gesture, don’t get too caught up in who’s supposed to be pointing where and how to point.” 

Kyoya cleared his throat, and turned away, leading the way regardless. “Yes...well. There will be more stairs, my apologies.”

“More stairs?” The only stairs from here would be to the basement. Downstairs. 

She followed him and met his pace, hooking their arms together. Even if they never worked out, with Tamaki being the focus of Kyoya’s adoration, a strange intimacy had grown between them over the course of the night. 

“More wealth, more stairs,” Haruhi grumbled under her breath as they came to the stairs in question. Carved stone stairs, a step down from marble, painted a friendly brown in multiple glistening layers. Socks off, then. Slipping and breaking her ankle was the last thing she wanted to do tonight, even if her toes flinched from the cold stone. 

Kyoya waited patiently for her to free her feet. His deep, calm breathing filled Haruhi’s ears. The rich could afford sound-blocking walls. Nothing like the thin apartment drywall through which newlyweds could broadcast their screams.

Haruhi imagined a game room, full of the more common comforts the old money aristocrats thought themselves above; a flat-screen TV, a bar with a fridge full of drinks, a pool table... A man cave. Everyone needed a place to retire to relax. Or the basement might be used as a storage room, consumables kept out of sight until needed, replenishing bathrooms with shampoo that never seemed to run out and kitchens with dish sponges so that nobody would have to go a day washing with a grimy, ripped sponge. 

But then again, why show her a storage room? As they descended, bright lights illuminating every scratch and speck on the walls, she entertained that perhaps they headed to an artist studio. A secret hobby, a starving artist hidden among the gleaming business family. Kyoya might ask her to be his model, painting too ‘cheap’ of a hobby for a student of such prestige. 

As it turned out, as they made it to the last steps, the basement was home to an ordinary laundry room. Larger space, state-of-the-art washer and dryer, fancy tables for sorting and folding, and laundry baskets that seemed more decorative than utilitarian, but a laundry room nonetheless. Uncovered bulbs glowed from the ceiling, lighting up a work station that chugged along through the night while the rest of the household snoozed. 

“Did...” This wasn’t how Haruhi expected the basement to render her speechless. “Did you want to wash my socks? I know you rich guys are amazed with household chores, but seriously...”

Kyoya’s voice ghosted over her ear, “It’s further in. I promise, it isn’t anything common.” A tingle went down her spine. He pulled away, that kind, soft smile blooming over his face. “But if you’d like, leave your socks here for the maids to clean.”

Haruhi smiled in return, although she admitted, with a sheepish blush, that she couldn’t imagine someone else having to clean up after her.

Kyoya laughed, the idea funny to him, apparently. “At least leave them out here. You won’t need them.”

“That’s true.” With a shrug, she threw her ankle socks onto a pile of what looked like gently-used clothing. No tearful farewell, she continued alongside Kyoya. Th pads of her feet pressed on cold stone floor. Painted stone, just like the stairs. Odd, but maybe that was the style of these rich houses. Rich people tended to be odd, as she had found out time and time again. 

The walk was silent from both of them, punctuated by the sounds of the laundry tumbling in the machines, and the hiss of a steaming iron. The old maid on duty smiled at them as she folded a freshly-ironed button-down, looking away when Haruhi raised a hand to wave. Another shirt dropped on the ironing board, another hiss.

Hidden behind the simple room with its simple functions, Kyoya opened a door, and this time he was the one to gesture ahead. “After you.”

Was this anticipation, this clench of her heart? As Haruhi stepped through and a humid chill washed over her, she decided that yes, it was anticipation.

Kyoya’s shoes tapped on the floor behind her. The door closed, encasing them in darkness.

Haruhi blinked a few time sin the sudden darkness. Fuzzy black. She reached out for the wall, then slowly for Kyoya. “Where’s the light switch?”

“The wiring doesn’t reach here.”

Kyoya’s calm, collected voice soothed her nerves, returning her smile to her face. Warm reassurance. 

That smile stopped as Kyoya’s hands found hers, and something cold, thin, and undeniably plastic wrapped around her wrists. Stunned and confused, she started tugging too late, but found herself caught. She winced as the thin ties, cutting into her skin, wouldn’t budge from her wrists. 

“Kyoya...?”

No response. She felt him nudge her forward, a gentle push to make her step forward a few feet, then stopped. “Kyoya. What are you doing?” Her voice wavered. One hand left her wrists. A phone clicked alive. Light blinded her. Kyoya’s hand pressed against the square of her back, and she walked gingerly on the cold floor that didn’t feel much like slick paint anymore, her eyes stinging with tears, unable to rub them to clear the sudden light. 

Using his phones flashlight, Kyoya led the way or Haruhi. Each reluctant step gave her time to build her shell, her outside confidence. The fear wouldn’t abate. Not until Kyoya released her and told her everything would be fine. 

“Twist ties? Really? Isn’t that a little common?”

This time, he replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you upgrade when we get there.”

So this wasn’t the surprise he had in mind for her. Not yet. But Haruhi bit her tongue. The light shone right above her shoulder. If she turned her head to look at him, find out how he thought of this situation, she would only find a choice of darkness or blinding light. Not a chance of a reassuring smile to show it was all a prank in good fun. 

Haruhi flinched as something metal glinted in the light ahead, illuminating scenes she hoped were the result of an overactive imagination. A hand clamped down on her wrist, jerking her ahead again. The light from the phone shook, and then steadied on her shoulder again. Haruhi’s eyes widened. 

“Please tell me this is a prank. This isn’t funny, Kyoya!”

Real metal. Rusted, real metal, more stark than anything she had seen in a movie. The difference between movie props and these objects was the lack of red. Flaky, rusty brown and black, but no splatters or drips here had the bright crimson of artificial gels or paint. No fake blood used here.

Her bare feet skittered on the hard floor, hard gunk hitting her toes. Haruhi tried once more, asking, “Is this from a movie set? Kyoya? Are you making a film down here?”

No response. Still, no response. The lack of talk did nothing to reassure her. “Kyoya? Kyoya!”

Her calls were interrupted by her own piercing shriek as a rough hand shoved her forward. In the sudden darkness as the light vanished from her aid, she shoved her hands in front of her to break her fall, yanking against the twist ties. Her chin smacked against wood. Her knees scratched on the floor, her dress riding up. Haruhi crouched on the floor, dazed. 

Lights from all around assaulted her vision. A few blinks to clear the lights, a few more to clear the shock. That would result in a few nasty bruises in the morning.

Looking around chilled her blood and tickled her with fascination at the same time. Dark brown stained the wood of the long triangular prism in front of her. She froze. A wooden horse, the top edge slashing into the air, sharp as if it had been carved to a point for a purpose. 

Lights dotted the walls; nothing like medieval torches or modern lamps, but battery-powered LED wall lights that cast everything in a strangely soft light. Nothing high-tech here. Only iron, wood, and rope. 

Distracted by taking in her surroundings, Haruhi squeaked as cold metal touched her arms. She tried to grab at it, only to be shushed by Kyoya. He twisted her arms behind her back, whispering as if speaking sweet nothings in her ear. “Hush, hush, you’re getting an upgrade.”

Understanding clicked as the metal clicked into place behind her. Handcuffs. Her heart sank at his next words; “After tonight, consider your debt paid. You won’t need to come to the host club anymore.”

“Kyoya.” Haruhi rambled, pushing out words, anything that would make him pause - “BDSM is safe and sane, right? What’s my safeword? I need a safeword here.”

Kyoya chuckled. “Haruhi, you mistake me. This is indeed bondage, but nothing in the sexual sense. This is something...much more beautiful.”

Haruhi found herself pulled to her feet. She craned her neck around to look at Kyoya, and found just the same satisfied smirk as ever, a smooth business visage staring back at her. In that moment, she didn’t see a friend or a human. Just a monster who had finally pinned down his prey. 

“I’ll finally have you out of the picture, bitch.”

Haruhi almost didn’t hear the last word.

The air left her lungs as Kyoya yanked her backwards. She skidded on oozing black that clung to her dress, and caught a brief flash of her tormentor. Her feet left the ground, floating for what seemed like an infinite moment frozen in time. Her mind spun, insisting Kyoya didn’t have that kind of strength. 

Her shoulder burst into white-hot pain. Something dug through her chest, several cracks echoing in her head. Once her screams abated in favor of ragged gasps, she heard Kyoya through the ringing in her ears.

“You’re always told you’re beautiful, you’re handsome. Just like a painting. And paintings are to be hung from the wall, don’t you think? Of course they are.”

Looking down, through the haze of pain, Haruhi registered something metal sticking out of her chest, right above the breast. Staring, she tried to concentrate on it. A giant fish hook, a sharp notch on the end. The metal was slick with what she assumed was her blood. Her heart beat haphazard in her ears. So it had missed that vital organ. The pain and shock had deceived her into thinking otherwise for a moment. 

“A painting isn’t complete if it has no paint on it, or no painter to give it color,” Kyoya continued. In her haze, legs swinging several inches above the floor, she thought she spotted a paintbrush in his hand. 

“Kyo...” It was hard to talk. “...ya?” She wheezed, throat raspy from the scream. It took her another moment to register humming.

Everything came so slow, in flashes like strobe lighting as her body tried to process shock. Something tugged at her bra. Haruhi fixed her hazy eyes on Kyoya, and watched him tug at her clothing. Quick flicks of the paintbrush severed her bra straps. No, not a paintbrush. A scalpel. 

She blinked, and tears fell down her face, the dress caught on the fish hook that held her suspended over the floor. She winced as Kyoya sawed through the cotton material, stripping it away bit by bit, each minuscule tug also tugging at the hole in her chest or at the hook occupying said hole. Her breathing stuttered, each inhale and exhale moving organs and bones and muscle that were much too close to the hook for her liking. 

It took an agonizingly long time before the dress dropped, in shreds from Kyoya’s methodical hacking. A few more seconds of pain, and then her bra fell, freeing her ribs to breathe easier that left her a mix of relieved and pained. Cold fire trailed down her hip. Then the other hip. Her panties fell as well, the little bow on the front landing in a growing pool of blood beneath her. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Haruhi felt like screaming again, but this wasn’t her apartment complex. The floors were stone. The walls were stone. Blood trailed down her body, making her shiver, but she wasn’t sure if more of it came from the hook jutting out, or the many small, thin lines Kyoya decorated her with. 

In her haze, she felt so alone, hanging in a painful void. Then Kyoya stepped into her vision, a new blade in hand. Larger. A kitchen knife, nagging at something familiar at the back of Haruhi’s mind. 

The knife slid into her shoulder, shallow, savoring the slow spread of pain across her features. Muscle tensed, making the metal digging in her hurt all the more. Death had never been attractive for Haruhi before, but damn, a quick and painless slice sounded mighty sexy at this point compared to this torture. She tugged at the cuffs on her wrists, the metal pressing and scraping against her skin. Upstairs, they had velvet-lined plush cuffs lying on the bedside table, nothing like this throwback to medieval times. 

Lines of red. One after another, again and yet again. Tan paled to white, pasty skin. Steady breathing quickened to beats of scraggly gasps. With no drain for any of the fluids from the session, they pooled in the dips in the stone floor, and Kyoya gingerly kept his nice shoes clear of the staining gore. He stepped back, admiring the scene with an impassive stare, and then turned away. Haruhi’s head twitched, lifting enough for her to watch him until he disappeared out the door, the lock clicking shut behind him. Once the lock stopped echoing in the small dungeon, she dropped her head, sighing in something of relief. Finally, an end. 

Outside, Kyoya walked up the steps, and smiled grimly as he reached the laundry room, a fresh outfit of pajamas set out for him for the end of a long day. He shed his clothes, dropping each in the bucket of cold water in the sink, one by one. Blood had to be properly treated to make sure it didn’t stain, after all. He got dressed, taking his time; purple silk pajamas. As he headed upstairs to the ground floor, he stopped the old maid, instructing her to pass on the message to seal the door to the dungeon. Turn it into a proper room, he told her. Such barbaric practices had no place in this modern, proper household. Put fresh wallpaper in the laundry room, the paint is starting to look faded. 

The fireplace in the dining room made no sound, extinguished for the night.

FIN


End file.
